


The Murder in Thorne Manor

by Not_an_American_kid



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Alcohol, Crime, Domestic Fluff, Friendship, Investigation, M/M, Murder, Mystery, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Sexism, Rich people being assholes, Romantic Watson, Sherlock doesn’t like romance, Sherlock is smart, Sherlock is smug as hell, Slow Burn, Subtle flirting, Victorian Sherlock Holmes, Watson getting angry at Sherlock, Watson thinks he’s straight, innuendos
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-31
Updated: 2018-02-12
Packaged: 2019-02-25 19:16:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13219428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Not_an_American_kid/pseuds/Not_an_American_kid
Summary: Private detective Sherlock Holmes and Doctor John Watson investigate the mysterious murder of Thomas Thorne. The only clues they have is a tiny note from the killer, a terrified maid, a bottle of absinthe, and Sherlock’s outlandish theories.





	1. And then it began

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to write a longer fic about these two, so let’s see how this goes. This fic is set in the universe of the Sherlock Holmes TV show, starring Jeremy Brett as Sherlock.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is assigned to a peculiar case.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just to set it up.

It was Lestrade himself that called Sherlock to Scotland Yard, having interrupted his very delicate chemical experiment at his abrupt request, leaving Watson to make sure the bubbling concoctions did not boil over as Sherlock grabbed his coat and took a cab to the station.

When he arrived, he found Lestrade with a distressed expression, glancing all over the place and with his arms tightly crossed. "Ah, Holmes, glad you could make it so quickly. We've got a bit of a fresh case on our hands, and I'm afraid you're our best bet at solving it." Lestrade clasped his hands together, his furrowed face softening. Sherlock raised a brow, glancing at some papers strewn about the desk, picking one up. "If this is just a regular murder, I am sorry to say that I am busy at the moment with other matters, Lestrade." Sherlocks eyes scowered the paper, picking out a few words; "Thorne manor', 'murdered', 'no witnesses', 'no signs of struggle', 'note left by killer'. Despite his statement, he felt curious.

 

"Oh no Holmes, this is a strange one." Lestrade grabbed the paper out of Sherlocks hand, waving it inbetween his thumb and pointer finger. "Thomas Thorne was found murdered in his office by his maid, and it seems the killer left behind a note, but nothing else. It seems every person in the manor has an alibi, so we desperately need your help." Lestrade gave Holmes a certain look, one that promised him that this case would not be a waste of his time. Sherlock pursed his lips for a moment before making a decision. 

 

"Well, my dear Lestrade, me and Watson will see to the crime scene." As he said that, Lestrade smiled, grabbing Sherlocks hand and shaking it enthusiastically. "Thank you so much, Holmes. I promise you will be paid handsomely, if you can catch the culprit." His eyes had lit up, and Sherlock smiled back at him, though it was colder. "I'm sure you will, and I am confident I can find your murderer." He let go of Lestrades hand, and walked off towards the door. "What about the adress, Holmes?" Lestrade asked, and Sherlock had already opened the door when he answered. "I already know it."

 

 

 

 

When Sherlock returned to 221 Baker street, he found Watson still in front of his chemistry setup, eye level with the table, intently staring at a small vial with a clear liquid in it as it gurgled curiously, his intense glare attempting to keep it from exploding and catching the whole flat on fire. He had barely noticed Sherlock walking in, but he quickly turned to him, springing up from the chair.

 

"Holmes, what did Lestrade have for you?" His face was with such heartfelt curiosity that Sherlock did not refrain from smiling as he shed his coat and hat. "A murder case, Watson. Do you know of Thorne manor?" He asked, and Watson seemed to think for a moment, raising his hand to his face, fingers gliding over his mustache. "Yes, I believe I do. Thomas Thorne is the current master of it, is he not?" Watson stepped aside as Sherlock sat down and continued fiddling with his chemistry. "He was, until today. He has been murdered under unclear circumstances, apparently. Lestrade wants us to investigate it." He did not look at Watson, but could tell he was surprised.

"Truly? Well, when will we be leaving? I will have to inform Mrs Hudson that we cannot stay for luncheon." He glanced at the clock, the hand nearing 12, the sun filtering through the red curtains and shining brightly through the gaps between them. 

 

"We will leave when I am finished with my experiment, Watson. You can go tell Mrs Hudson while I finish up." Sherlock turned off a flame, Watson nodding and exiting the room, soon after finding Mrs Hudson in the hallway with a bundle of clothing on her arms, and she smiled formally at him.

 

"Hello Watson. Did Holmes ask you to fetch something for him?" She set down the clothing on a chair, brushing off her apron. "No, we are actually leaving very soon. Lestrade has assigned us to a murder case, you see. You will not have to prepare luncheon for us today." Watson saw his coat in the bundle of clean clothing, carefully pulling it out and putting it on. Hudson blinked. "Very well, then." She shook her head, picking the clothes back up as Sherlock came out of the flat, in the process of pulling on his coat, a strange aroma of roses and lavender about him, though a chemical stench could be sensed too.

 

"The perfume came out exactly as I had expected, Watson. Miss Clampton had made it herself, undoubtedly." He walked past the two, gesturing for Watson to follow him. "We will take a cab to the manor, and from there we will see what Lestrade was on about." He quickly disappeared down the stairs, and Watson smiled sheepishly at Mrs Hudson before following him out the door. As strange as Sherlock was, Watson found his queerness quite endearing, when it was not making a mess of their apartment, or throwing them on trips to absurd Scottish isles to find specific poisonous flowers. A trip to a manor just outside of London was much more preferable.

 

 

 

 

"There it is, Watson." Sherlock said, as a large white manor became visible in the distance, it being a tall and surprisingly modern structure set on fields upon fields, all empty. Watson thought it strange that the place had no apparent garden. "It is quite isolated..." He murmured, the rest of the short trip going by in silence, Sherlock offering a hand to help Watson out of the carriage as he stepped out, and they walked along the path to the manor together. "Mister Thorne was quite an odd man. Rarely left his manor, and spent his fortune on nothing, content with the oddities and antiquities his father had already bought. This is likely a case of murder in order to obtain an inheritance, since he did not have many chances to make enemies." Sherlock said, staring straight ahead, Watson nodding along with his arms crossed behind his back. "I did not know much about him, only that he was wealthy."

 

They reached the front doors, knocking curtly before the door opened, a maid with wide eyes and a pale face behind it, hair frizzy under her head piece and head low, hands curling around each other. "A- are you... Are you policemen?" She looked at them thoroughly, seeming intimidated by Sherlock, who stepped aside and allowed Watson to deal with the woman. "No, we are private detectives. This is Sherlock Holmes." He looked at the taller man, his voice gentle, setting the poor maid at some ease. "We wish to investigate the crime scene. Could you show us to it?" He soothed, and Sherlock couldn't help but be impressed at how calming he seemed to be to women, despite his seemingly bad luck at finding one as a partner. The maid opened the door for them, and they stepped in.

 

"O-of course, gentlemen. It's... it's just up these stairs." She hurried off, the two men going after her, and they found themselves in front of Thorne's office. "He... He is still in there. The other police are searching the rest of the... of the house." She swallowed, looking away. "I apologize, you will have to go in alone. I cannot look at him again." She grabbed her skirt and hurried back down the stairs, and Watson looked after her. "Poor girl, she is shocked..." he murmured, though Sherlock didn't seem to notice, entering the office.

 

The room was not too large, but it was well decorated, busts and pillars of marble lining the walls along with tall bookcases, the desk in the middle made of mahogany, stacks of documents strewn about it, as well as bottles of ink, a quill, books, and a stamping set; but most importantly, Thomas Thorne was there, still sitting on his chair, chest and head on the desk while his hands dangled from his sides, his spectacles nearly pushed off of his face. Watson swallowed. "Good grief..." He stepped around to the other side of the desk, examining the dead body. Sherlock looked around the room, and he quickly spotted an empty bottle of absinthe at Thorne's feet, no liquid visible inside of it, only a drop or two at the bottom, its cap lying only a few inches from it. His gloved fingers carefully picked the bottle up, studying the label; it seemed to be quite expensive. "The green fairy..." He said, and Watson glanced at him. "Absinthe? So he had been drinking?"

 

Watson looked at the body again, Thorne's eyes were wide open and pale, face showing no emotion, and no apparent signs of intoxication. Then, he found a note next to Thorne's head, the paper only about 2 inches in length and width, the letters on it too small to read with a naked eye. "Holmes, look at this!" Watson hastily found a magnifying glass in one of Thorne's desk drawers, Sherlock moving over to see through it. "Must be the note Lestrade had mentioned on his paper..." He closed one eye, the letters becoming clear under the lens.

"Thomas did not deserve to live, forgive me for this gruesome act." He read aloud, frowning and leaning back. "Despite how much care it must have taken to write at such a small scale, the handwriting seems hasty. It is undoubtedly from our killer." He picked up the paper, looking at either side of it.

 

"It is quite regular paper, but it is strangely thick, and the edges are perfectly clean. Why would our murderer use such a small square of paper? To hide their handwriting, most likely... But they could not have written this ahead of time, nor have cut it out right after the murder, the messy letters and the clean edges do not add up." Sherlocks brows furrowed, and he pulled out a folded document from his pocket, glancing through it as Watson stood and waited for his conclusion.

 

He looked back at the corpse. He picked up Thorne's quill, dipping it in black ink and taking a random paper from the desk, scrawling some letters onto it, glancing between the quills writing and the note. "It could not have been made with Thorne's own quill, the letters are too thin. I doubt a pen could do this either... It must have been with something with an even thinner tip, perhaps a pin or needle." He huffed, shaking his head and redirecting his attention away from the note. 

 

"There were three people present when the murder took place... Thomas Thorne, our victim, his maid Marianne Fletcher who greeted us at the door, and the gardener, Harold Jackson. Thornes daughter Annabelle was not home at the time, as she was seen by multiple people in London." He looked at Watson, whose face was beyond amazed. "Holmes, how on _earth_ do you know this?" He almost stammered, and Sherlock smirked, holding up the document. "I pocketed Lestrades paper when he was not looking." He put it back into his coat, walking back to the door. "We should question the people in the house, shouldn't we, Watson?" He did not look back, and Watson glanced at all of their unclear evidence before joining him. "Yes, we should, Holmes."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the shortness of the chapter!


	2. The terrified maid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock questions the possible murderers. Watson is smitten.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic is a bit lacking, I know, but I am attempting a more realistic set up.

"Who do you think we should question first, Watson?" Sherlock said as he climbed down the stairs, Watson only a few steps behind him. "Why are you asking _me_ , Holmes?" He inquired, grabbing the railing, already feeling his legs become sore, marveling at Sherlocks energy. "Can I not ask for your opinion?" Sherlock replied, jumping off the last two steps, coat lifting behind him as he hastily walked across the tiled floor. Watsons brow furrowed. "Well, I do not see why my opinion would be needed, you are the detective, after all." He took a moment to catch up to his companion, taking long strides to match up with Sherlocks long legs.

"But I believe we should speak to the gardener first. The maid should be given some time to calm down, and Thorne's daughter has a proven alibi, so she should be questioned last." He looked at Sherlock, who only glanced at him as they neared the doors that seemingly led to the garden. "Very well, Watson. We shall question Harold first." And with that, they exited the house, and were met by a large terrace, where a beautifully complex white pavilion stood, and in the pavilion, a man sat on a chair, holding his brimmed hat, fingers stained with earth and face sunken, expression anxious as he spotted Holmes and Watson.

 

"You are Harold, are you not? Thomas Thorne's gardener?" Sherlock asked, Watson frowning at his bluntness. The man that sat in front of them shook with nervousity. "Yes, I am..." He had a raspy voice, watery eyes bulging, hands grasping his hat even tighter. "I am private detective Sherlock Holmes, and this is my assistant, Doctor Watson. We would like to ask you some questions regarding the murder of mister Thorne." Sherlock had no apparent sympathy for the man, who timidly nodded. "I promise you mister Holmes, I didn't do it. I would never kill anyone, especially not Thomas, I ain't a suspect, am I?" Harold blurted out, unkept beard frizzy and looking as if it hadn't been cleaned in days. "I do not suspect you as of yet, Mister Jackson. Recount your day up until the murder of Thorne." Sherlock still did not cease his cold tone, and Harold looked down at the ground.

 

"I guess I can do that..." He took a deep breath, seemingly as shaken by the event as the maid.

 

"I woke up at 6 'o clock, and I ate breakfast with Marianne at 6 thirty. I believe I went into the garden at 7, and I worked up until I heard Marianne screaming from the second floor at.. uh... maybe 9 o' clock... A horrible noise, I knew she must've seen something terrible, so I hurried up and saw Thomas' body, all limp. Marianne called the police. I hadn't seen Thomas all day, so I have no idea what he had been up to." He swallowed, lip quivering.

 

"Very well, Mister Jackson. If Miss Fletcher's testimony of the event fits with yours, you are largely safe from prosecution." Sherlock glanced around, eyeing the empty fields. "I do have another question, Mister Jackson..." Sherlocks gaze became fixated on Harold, who shrunk under his scrutiny. "You are the gardener, but Watson remarked as we arrived that this manor has no garden. There are only fields, and one lone gardener is surely not the one upholding them." Sherlock narrowed his eyes, and Harold swallowed. "Mister Holmes, it's true what your friend said, the manor don't have a proper garden... But there is a greenhouse at the western side that I take care of. It belongs to Annabelle, but she don't like getting 'er hands dirty..." He could not keep his gaze on Holmes, looking at the doctor with a pleading glint in his eyes, but alas, Watson could do nothing. "I see. We have much to do, so we will leave you for now, Mister Jackson." Sherlock abruptly turned on his heel and left, leaving Watson confused for a moment before he spared the gardener a sympathetic glance and ran after Holmes.

 

 

"He is not the murderer, Watson." Sherlock said over his shoulder, assertively maneuvering through the manors twisting halls as if it was his childhood home, Watson almost losing him around several corners. "How do you know that, Holmes? He was shaking with anxiety, and his testimony sounded lacking, too." Watson found it strange that Sherlock would shut down a possible suspect before he had even met all of them, and found himself perhaps a bit annoyed at Sherlocks tendency to choose one theory and follow it straight to hell. "He was not shaking because of anxiety, Watson. He is suffering from the shaking palsy. With such an ailment he could not possibly have written the miniscule note" He cast Watson a stern glance. "And did you not see his hands and boots? They were covered in dirt. If he had murdered Thorne, he would've left trails on the body and the floor, and I doubt that an old working class gardener could kill Thorne in such a sophisticated way that he left no signs of the act on the body." Sherlock sounded agitated, voice a crescendo from the beginning to the end of his sentence. The doctor spoke up. "But could he not have dirtied himself after the murder, to make you come upon the conclusion that he could not be the murderer?" Watson staggered a bit as Sherlock turned to him, a mischievous grin suddenly gracing his features. "I like your questions, Watson. I might be rubbing off on you." He paused for a moment, enough for Watson to suspect he had somehow gone mad in the span of a few minutes.

 

"But no, he could not have. The dirt under his fingernails was dark and hard, and the stains were at least a day old. He is spineless, incompetent and not our man." Sherlocks serious expression returned, and he continued walking to what Watson assumed to be some sort of lounge as the hallways widened and doors were replaced by open archways. "We will inspect Miss Thorne's greenhouse once we have questioned the two remaining suspects." He cast the statement over his shoulder, and they entered the parlor, a spacious place decorated with tall potted plants and cold marble everywhere you looked. The maid sat on a white couch, grasping a handkerchief tightly between her shaking hands, eyes flickering back amd forth from left to right. On the other end of the room, with her back turned to the men, there sat a young woman at the piano, barely grazing the ivory with her fingertips, too lightly to produce any music. Sherlock ignored her and went straight for the maid, Watson obediently following his friend.

 

"Miss Fletcher." Sherlock's voice rang out with a force that made Watson cringe, and the maid jumped, staring at him with wide eyes. "M-mister Holmes..." She swallowed, hastily wiping at her puffy eyes. "Have you come to question me?" She averted his gaze, and Watson looked at Sherlock with furrowed brows, a silent plea to be gentle with the poor girl. Sherlock paid him no mind. "Yes, miss Fletcher. We have just spoken to the gardener, mister Jackson, and you were the next on our list." Sherlock sat in one of the armchairs opposite the sofa, crossing his legs and intertwining his fingers. "I would like you to recall the events from when you woke up to when you found Thorne's body." He cocked his head to the side, no sympathy in his cold eyes, but that was only expected. The maid hesitated, seemingly attempting to recollect her day. Eventually she let out a shaky breath, and began speaking.

 

"At 5:30, I woke up, took a bath, then went to the kitchen to prepare breakfast. Harold came in and we ate together, after which he went outside. I was busy cleaning, and if there was... any noise, I'm afraid I heard nothing. At 9'o clock I went to Thomas' office to sweep, and... oh god." She pursed her lips, stifling a sob as her face contorted, head falling into her palms. Watson quickly approached, laying a hand on her shoulder. "Miss Fletcher..." He attempted to soothe, knowing Sherlock would've just sat and waited it out. Eventually, the maid regained her bearings, sniffling. "I... Found him collapsed on his desk... I thought he had passed out, maybe had a stroke, but when I went to feel his pulse... I felt nothing. Harold came in a few minutes later, and he stayed in the room while I called the police." She took a deep breath, leaning back as Watson removed his hand from her. Sherlock said nothing for some time.

 

"You are lying, Miss Fletcher." With that, the maids head snapped up to look at Sherlock, lips slightly parted and brows furrowing. "What do you mean?..." She looked to Watson in disbelief, but the doctor was now focusing on Holmes. "That handkerchief in your hands." Sherlock nodded at the wadded up cloth clutched in between her fingers, stained with tears. "It has the initials D.T on it, obviously referring to a member of the Thorne family, but the only Thorne other than Thomas is Abigail. The D stands for his dead wife's name, and I know it was a female, as it has faint red stains, with the same caky texture as lipstick. The handkerchief was hers. After her death, Thomas gave it to you, and such a gift is obviously meaningful, the intricate lace trimmings originate from the small Danish town of Toender, previously renowned for it's production of lace, so when this was purchased, a long time ago, it was with a hefty price." Sherlock paused for only a moment, enough for the maid to look like a victim of complete shock. "Mrs. Delilah Thorne..." She murmured.

 

"Now what does this mean? You say you bathed today, but it is obvious you did more than that. Your skin looks to be unnaturally soft, the result of an ointment of sorts, your hair is freshly and tightly curled, and your nails have been clipped today, judging by their length. You took extra care in your appearance, yet you say the only thing you did was make breakfast and clean. Now that poses another question; You prepared breakfast, but say you had not encountered Thorne all day until 9'o clock. After Harold left, you bought breakfast to Thomas in his office. Back to the handkerchief; why would Thorne give it to you? Because you were having an affair." Watson stared at Sherlock, and so did the maid, grasp on the cloth loosening. "But it was secret. You only met with Thorne on specific days, where you dressed yourself up, met him in his office under the guise of cleaning or delivering." Sherlock frowned, his eyes holding such intensity it seemed he could snap at any moment. "After you had delivered breakfast, you went downstairs and did indeed clean. At 9'o clock you went upstairs, it is likely this was a predetermined time for you and Thorne to meet, and you found him dead." Holmes finished.

 

The maid's tears continued, but she did not sob, only stared at the detective. "I... I can't believe it." She squeaked, closing her eyes, tear drops rolling down her cheeks in thick streams. She did not object to Sherlock's claims. Watson could do nothing but look between them. "You are not our murderer, miss Fletcher." Holmes said, and the maid looked at him, lip quivering. "Thank you... mister Holmes..." Perhaps a confession was what she needed, Watson pondered, at least relieved the maid did not cry more. Sherlock stood up, nodding at Watson as he began to approach the woman at the piano, whose hand movements ceased as the two men stopped just a bit behind her, yet her head did not turn as she greeted them. "Detective. Doctor." Her voice was light and assertive, carrying the tone of a true formal lady. 

 

"Miss Thorne." Sherlock greeted as well, watching as the woman turned her face towards them, only half, yet that revealed enough. Her lips were a delicate shade of rose red, eyes an icy blue, looking to them with contracted pupils. She smiled, coldly, but with some stroke of emotion. She did not seem to care much that her father had just died, and though that should immediately have set off alarms in Watson's head, he felt lost as he stared at her, dazed, even, completely enchanted. He was frozen to the spot as Sherlock spoke again. "So, miss Thorne-" He was about to go off, but the woman smiled wider, finally showing her full face to them. "Call me Annabelle, please." The interruption clearly annoyed Sherlock, but he carried on with only a smidge of irritation in his voice. " _Annabelle_ , then. You have an alibi for the murder of your father, correct?" He raised his brow ever so slightly, and Annabelle nodded, amusement playing in her bright eyes. "I do. I was in London for a meeting with a friend, I had travelled there yesterday, and it was only at 10' o clock today I recieved a call from a police officer, who told me my father had been found dead." She shrugged, far too nonchalantly, and one of her hands fidgeted with her pearl necklace. "I immediately came back to the manor then." She batted her eyelashes, making Watson glance off, even though she only looked at Sherlock, who had no sight for her charms.

 

"You do not seem very affected by your father's death, Annabelle." His voice was as cold as her eyes, but her façade did not break apart. "No, I'm afraid not. I was never close to him. Perhaps you could call me heartless, but I will not fake sadness when I feel none." She shook her head lightly, sighing quietly. "But you understand, don't you, Holmes?" Her voice slithered, like the snake climbing up the tree of life, comparing itself to its fruits of wisdom. "Some people do not feel such human emotion." With that, she smirked so subtly it was almost unnoticable, and it indeed went unnoticed by Watson, whose eyes did not leave her elegant features. "No, some people don't." Sherlock narrowed his eyes, tempted to sneer. "But even then, you do not strike me as someone whose emotions are simply askew to the norm. I don't believe you have any to begin with." Holmes seemed repulsed, grasping Watson's sleeve. "Thank you, miss Thorne." He turned on his heel, pulling his doctor away and out of the parlor, despite the man attempting to resist.

 

"Holmes! There was no need to say that!" He yanked his arm out of Sherlock's grip once they had exited the parlor, frowning. "First you terrify the gardener, expose the poor maid, then accuse the lady of being emotionless, and you have made no progress!" Watson put his hands on his hips, looking at Sherlock demandingly, though his detective did not have any reaction. "I am only doing my job, Watson. Bluntness can reveal many things; and miss Thorne is obviously hiding something." Sherlock looked at Watson, lips setting into a firm line, and he suddenly turned again. 

 

"Anyway, we have a greenhouse to inspect." He left Watson standing confused for a moment, before the doctor sighed in exasperation, and followed.


End file.
